


A Crook's Tale

by wendyloulou



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Jealous!Arthur, M/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Work In Progress, art theft AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-01
Updated: 2013-02-08
Packaged: 2017-11-20 00:43:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/579423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wendyloulou/pseuds/wendyloulou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In this story:</p><p>Robbie Fischer hides in the closet. Saito is enamored with a certain doctor. Arthur is a tool. And Eames is the rescue artist.</p><p>On hiatus. Because life happened.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tadashi

**Author's Note:**

  * For [immoral_crow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/immoral_crow/gifts).



> This story takes place about 18 months after the events of ["Natural Blues"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/415026/chapters/689435), but you don't really have to read that one to understand what is going on. It was read through by immoral-crow and I'm forever in her debt. I'm responsible for all the remaining mistakes.  
> Disclaimer: Inception and all the characters belong to Christopher Nolan. This work of fanfiction was written for fun.

This is how they worked at the villa. For the first three years they had Mr. Wood, so the Japanese part of the team was forced to take on the night shift. And they did, because Mr. Wood was their superior, appointed by Saito-san, and, therefore, his decisions were not to be questioned. But they kept their eyes open and paid attention to everything that was happening at the museum, even if they were not physically present. And they reported, directly to Saito-san, bypassing Mr. Lewis, the curator of the museum, the way they had been instructed, on a weekly basis.

Life in America was not as dangerous as they had expected. People were not brandishing guns in the streets and in their first year in Los Angeles they hadn't even heard a single gunshot. Tadashi liked the weather, and after a while he warmed up towards Americans as well. The only thing that still bothered him was the service. Sales associates and servers who treated customers as their friends and indulged in useless personal exchanges at work were something he would never understand.

They roomed in a small apartment complex not far from work. Tadashi was the first to master the right-hand traffic and, for the first year, was driving the whole team to and from work. Kiyoshi got his permit a year later, because, let's face it, he was a bit of a slow learner, and the Abe twins never bothered to learn. They didn't even study the language, but who would blame them, since all they did was secure the villa grounds at night when there were no patrons, and to yell at each over the radio – Japanese was more than enough.

Mr. Wood was not a bad man. He was ex-military, like Tadashi himself, in his late fifties, and after a certain age, it was difficult for a man, just like a dog, to learn the new tricks. Sometimes Mr. Wood forgot to perform the weekly review of the recordings in the archive. Then Tadashi would do it himself. There wasn't much for him to do during the night shift anyway. They had a couple of very unpleasant conversations when Tadashi had to point out an ill-thought placement of a particular piece in a particular exhibition, if it interfered with the security layout or simply defied common sense. For example, he could understand the logic behind placing the most important piece of the collection in the spacious room of the Main Gallery, with two enormous French windows and the best lightning in the whole building, but security-wise, Tadashi would never approve of that, if he was in a position to decide. Or at times, during the weekly review, Tadashi would spot one of the guards on the tape leave his post in order to start a friendly chat with a colleague on the other side of the room, leaving his half of the exhibit unattended: an unacceptable display of negligence that defied the very purpose of their work.

All of Tadashi's remarks and suggestions were accepted with respect and taken into consideration. The exhibits in question were moved in accordance with his proposition, and the negligent co-workers were given a warning, and, at times, fired. However, each such conversation filled Tadashi with a sense of uneasiness, as if he were overstepping his boundaries by teaching his superior to do his work.

It all ended on a dark August night when Kiyoshi was running the monthly check-up of the system, and the twins had just gone for the first hourly patrol of the night. Suddenly, the radio came to life, and one of the Abes began vomiting curses. Quickly they found him on the monitors. He was inside the Red Gallery, jumping in front of the camera and waving his hands like a demented windmill.

It appeared they had been looted.

He sprinted to the Red Gallery, leaving Kiyoshi in the control room to look through the recordings of the day. The Red Gallery was the villa's former smoking room, situated a bit to the side of the entrance hall and carrying a small collection of etchings by German artists, which dated from the 16th to the 18th century. Tadashi only knew all that because it was part of his job to be well-informed about the objects he was supposed to guard. The etchings – the tiny yellowish sheets of paper covered with a complicated web of black lines – left him completely indifferent. He ran into the Red Gallery and stopped in the doorway, quickly casing the room. The twin was waiting for him in one of the corners where two strings that used to hold a glass frame containing one of the etchings now were hanging loose. Tadashi remembered the engraving: it was a portrait of a girl with a rose flower. A tiny, sad drawing of a child with an angel face. The only reason why it had been stolen, he decided, was that it was easy to get.

The truth about art galleries, Tadashi knew, was that while some of them cared to shell out for an adequate insurance, like the Saito Center did, the security systems they used were mostly aimed to work during the night time when the gallery was closed and there were no patrons present. The logic behind this decision was simple: each gallery tried to make its collection as accessible to the patrons as possible. They could have gotten their exhibits in glass boxes and put them behind the rope poles, but it would not help them draw more visitors. The art had to be seen and admired. And who in his right mind would have attempted to steal a painting under the light of day, from a gallery full of people and protected by a number of security guards?

Thus, the complicated computerized systems, the invisible laser rays and falling security cages were the stuff of Hollywood movies. The only security system, apart from the 24/7 video circuit, that was applied at the center was the web of motion detectors set up on each of the twenty-seven windows of the old villa. They were never worried about the gates, but the windows were a real weak link.

Unfortunately, the looter who had raided the place worked in the day time. They found him on camera. At 4 in the afternoon, when the guard who was supposed to be overseeing the room was engaged in a lively conversation with his friend guarding the main hall, a slim youth wearing a black jacket entered the Red Gallery. He moved slowly from one engraving to another, keeping a watchful eye on the guard, and when the moment was right, took out a key ring with a tiny camper knife on it, and cut the thin strings carrying the glass-covered frame with the etching. The frame was not bigger than 20 x 30 centimeters and, therefore, fit perfectly under a flap of the kid's jacket. The whole operation took no more than three seconds to perform. Having concealed the painting, the youth simply walked out of the room and then left the building. The guard in charge of the Red Gallery continued chatting with his friend, oblivious to what had just happened under his nose. There were a few more visitors to the room during the remaining hours, but none of them thought it suspicious that one of the etchings was missing. There was a security guard present after all. What could have possibly happened to it?

When the working hours were over, the cleaning crew came and went, and again the absence of one of the pieces of the exhibit remained unnoticed. At a quarter to nine, the security guard locked the room for the night without giving it a proper examination. And half an hour later the twins went for the first patrol.

Their guidelines for any such unexpected development were pretty simple: call Aono-san, the personal assistant of Saito-san. Which they did immediately upon assessing the situation. Aono-san listened to Tadashi's explanations, dead calm, informed him that they had everything under control, thanked him for conscientious work and wished him a good night. They were not, he said, to inform the authorities or Mr. Lewis, or the American Head of Security. “Proceed according to the daily schedule,” were his exact words.

This is how they lost Mr. Wood and got Arthur. The next evening when they arrived at work, the parking space reserved for Mr. Wood's Hammer was occupied by Aono-san's armed SUV, next to which stood an inconspicuous gray sedan. They entered the building and went to the main office, crossing the entrance hallway under the terrified stares of American guards.

The curator's office was overcrowded with people. Through the glass wall of the anteroom they saw Aono-san presiding over Mr. Lewis's desk. His eyes were glued to the computer screen in front of him. On his right, a little bit behind Aono's back, stood a slim young man in a dark gray suit. Bending slightly towards the desk, he was pointing at the screen and apparently giving a running commentary to what was being displayed. On their left, in the puffed arm-chairs reserved for visitors, were sitting two associates from the center's legal team, one of them buried up to his nose in personal files, which were filling up the yellow boxes occupying a not unsubstantial part of the floor in that part of the room. The other one was typing furiously on his laptop, occasionally throwing an expectant glance at Mr. Howard who, Tadashi knew, was the very head of that very legal department. Mr. Howard was pacing the room, looking through the files on his PDA, pausing from time to time to dictate instructions to the associate behind the laptop. Mr. Lewis himself was standing by the young man in the gray suit, following his explanations, observing what was going on on the computer screen with an expression of embarrassment and outrage on his face.

“Eh!” said Kiyoshi suddenly and narrowed his eyes at the gray suit. “That's our guy, right there.”

“What-” Tadashi began, but then he took in the rigid posture, the too big hands, the pale, hollowed face, the sharp dark eyes. Right in the middle of Mr. Lewis's office, explaining something animatedly to Aono-san and the curator stood their looter from the night before.

By the evening of the next day, things had changed at the villa. The engraving of an angel-faced child was back in its place in the Red Gallery, the legal team departed upon having sent several members of the day-time crew home with a two-week's notice. A private contractor firm from the valley began the installation of an up-to-date security system which furnished each piece of the exhibit with an individual motion detector, and finally Arthur Levine replaced Mr. Wood as the Head of Security at the villa.

At first they were wary of him. He was edgy. Young but old-looking. With a face permanently creased into a dissatisfied frown. Dangerously thin, as a man who'd just recovered from a serious illness. Not an illness, Tadashi realized after some observation, a wound to the left arm, pretty fresh, not more than a couple of months, still tender, still bothering him and making him cringe when he thought nobody was looking. He was a controlling type, they quickly understood, the one that insisted on holding daily briefings at the beginning of both the day and night shifts, and sometimes arrived unexpected during the night shift just to check on how the things were going in his absence. He was blunt, could say atrociously tactless things, and once he figured out the twins did not speak a word of English, he gave them a notice, saying they could use the given time to learn the language or look for a different job. And they learned. Because by that time they didn't want to work anywhere else, but at the villa.

They now ran the review of the recordings on a daily basis. It meant more work for Tadashi, but he didn't mind, because for the first time in three years he felt safe on his job. Finally, he had a superior who was ready to take the responsibility and solve the problems instead of ignoring them.

About a week after Arthur's accession, he caught Tadashi in the main hallway right before the beginning of the night shift.

“You've been head of the night crew here for how long,” he asked, not bothering with the greeting, as discourteous as he could be. Remembering Mr. Wood's love for extensive lectures on history and the current balance of powers in the world, Tadashi braced himself internally for another thirty minutes of precious time to be wasted on the aimless chatter.

“Four years,” he replied courteously, with a short bow of the head, because it was the first time he was spoken to by his new superior after all.

“And before that?” Arthur asked, not bothering to look at him, reaching out into the chest pocket of his suit and producing an old-fashioned leather bound planner and a pen.

“MOMAT in Tokyo,” answered Tadashi, trying to figure out where it was all leading, “the shift supervisor for nine years.”

Arthur shot him a quick look, his eyebrows raised, clearly impressed.

“Now listen,” he said, opening his planner and clicking the pen, “based on your experience, what changes in the layout of the exhibits would you suggest to improve the security situation?”

Tadashi blinked.

Arthur looked at his watch and scowled. “I'm a bit behind the schedule here,” he said sullenly. “Do you think fifteen minutes will be enough?”

…

And they loved him.

As crass as he was at first, he possessed an innate respect for the rules and laws, which was the basis for success in their field of work. He understood the importance of ritual. After a few weeks he stopped mispronouncing their names. They congratulated themselves on their fantastic new boss.

“He is Thai, I'm telling you,” one of the Abes would say over the ribs at lunch-time. “Just look at his eyes, at the bone structure.”

“More of a Korean, if you ask me,” would reply the other one.

“Have you not seen his last name, you dummies?” Kiyoshi would mumble, choking on a piece of meat. “He is Jewish, but I bet his mother is Chinese. It often happens here, in the States, you know. Chinese girls marry Jewish guys...”

“He is not Jewish, if his mother is Chinese,” the first Abe would scoff, “do your research before you start speaking.”

Each of them could be right and wrong, in Tadashi's opinion. When he looked at the line of Arthur's neck above the crisp collar of his shirt, at the cut of his cheekbones, he couldn't help thinking of the Khmer Apsara dancers in their golden five-pointed headdresses. The shape of Arthur's eyes, the curve of his lips reminded him of the playful statues decorating the lowest terrace of the Borobudur Shrine, the one representing the realm of human desires.

Tadashi knew lust. He knew love as well, the unconditional kind, wishing well to the object of one's affection regardless of whether the feeling was reciprocated. He never lied to himself about why he felt so elated and heart-broken every day when he entered the gates of the villa, expecting the fifteen minutes of the daily briefing: Arthur's curt greeting, his dry tone when he spoke of the things that needed to be fixed, the comical frown on his youthful face that made him look a bit like the head of shisa used in the lion dance during a Shinto festival, the warmth in the corners of his eyes when he spoke to Tadashi one-on-one before leaving for the night.

Arthur changed, too, over the course of the year they spent working together. The lines on his face smoothed out. His cheeks filled, and the depressed, leaden look was gone from his eyes. When Tadashi first saw him on the monitor in the control room, he thought of a hungry wolf, a stray dog, desperate, dangerous, and of a mistreated child, angry and defensive. This child had disappeared, giving way to a young man, calm, self-assured, even regal. Stability does it to you, Tadashi thought, a job that makes you feel needed, important. Friendship, too. And family.

Arthur got married the following May. Tadashi attended, so did the twins and Kiyoshi. 

“Look at how his face is shining with fat!” one of the twins would remark later, after an especially short briefing which had a fleeting satisfied smile cross Arthur's face as he informed them that there were no errors to discuss on that particular day. “And his old shirts look like they're about to burst open on his chest, if you care to pay attention. That's because he's married now. His wife feeds him well!”

“That's because he spends too much time exercising,” Kiyoshi would say, knowledgeable as usual, “not because of overeating.”

“Still the married life has done him good,” insisted the twin, “he doesn't look like he's about to bite your leg off, anymore. I wish we would find a nice woman for Tadashi-san as well. If we managed to, our life would turn into an ultimate bliss.”

For a happily married man, Tadashi thought, Arthur was spending too much time between work and the gym. But he would never give voice to those thoughts. Besides, happiness wasn't really the point of entering a marriage, was it?

And then they lost him, because everything good in this plain comes to an end sooner or later, just like everything bad does.

On an August evening, almost exactly a year after the incident with the etching, Arthur called Tadashi into his office and congratulated him on his new post as the Head of Security at the Saito Center. Shaking his former boss's hand, Tadashi felt torn between pride and sadness. Rumors had been circulating for quite some time that Arthur would be leaving soon in order to ensure the security of Saito-san on his travels. Nobody knew who would replace him as the chief of security at the villa. The responsibility that would be laid on the successor would almost equal the honor.

Tadashi was not intimidated by the perspective of maintaining the standards of work set up by his predecessor. He had already sworn to himself that if in the future Levine-san ever decided to check on how the things were at the museum, he would have been proud of the efforts of his former night crew. Tadashi, Kiyoshi and the twins had all sworn on that.

And he visited them once a month with a routine inspection. They watched his manners grow milder and his suits grow more and more expensive with every visit. This was the price of traveling in high company, Tadashi thought. And it wasn't too dear of a price to pay. He saw the gold of Arthur's wedding band fade a little as the months passed, but he would never ask, having resolved to respect Arthur's choice, and Arthur would never guess the truth, and thus remained oblivious to Tadashi's longing.

It all ended on the Christmas night of that same year, when the villa was exhibiting a private collection which belonged to an Australian energy tycoon. It was also housing a small private party, entirely composed of the members of the family owning the exhibit, and the close friends of Saito-san who was in town with a brief visit.

The security of the place that night was ensured by a private security firm from the valley. The former night crew was, thanks to Tadashi's decision, all gathered in the control room and having a party of their own. Their former chief, who was, to no surprise, on duty that night, came to see them for a few minutes and have a glass of fizzy wine with his ex-colleagues. He looked stunning in black pinstripe, and a little bit like a groom, or a crown prince, full of his own importance, knowing too well how they all worshiped him.

Kiyoshi, extremely proud of their newest video circuit, was showcasing the features on the new cameras, flicking from one room to another, changing the angles, switching the volume levels, zooming in on the exhibits that he considered to be the funniest, unaware of the fact that at some point they all started laughing at him, not with him, feeling nostalgic and endeared. He was mumbling about the new sound-recording features, when Arthur put his champagne flute on a tray and told Tadashi with a quiet smile that he was about to get going as the job could not wait any longer. _Now_ , Tadashi thought and offered to see Arthur to the main floor. Arthur smiled very wide, a tiny bit tipsy, showing off the childish dimples on his cheeks, and Tadashi thought again that yes, he had softened with time, and felt unexpectedly, dangerously hopeful of what might have blossomed between them but had never been given a chance.

He quickly instructed the twins on what to do with their inebriated technical genius, in case Tadashi himself had failed to return on time, and Arthur had begun buttoning his jacket when Kiyoshi temporarily lost control of the controls desk. The room filled with the noise from one of the cameras. It was a conversation of two men, and the new system must have been worth every cent paid, because, despite the metallic overtones, the words being said by the people on the screen were perfectly legible. One of the speakers laughed. It was a light-hearted, raucous laugh of a young man who had no worries to care about in this world.

Arthur's fingers froze on the buttons of his jacket. His face fell. Slowly, he lifted his head and listened, frowning in concentration. Then he turned abruptly, knocking his flute off the tray, sending it down on the floor where it broke in two and spilled the remains of the fizzy wine into the carpet. He approached the controls in two long strides.

“Zoom in on them,” he muttered, bending to peer closer at the men on the main screen. He was slurring his words, as if he suddenly lost control of his tongue. Kiyoshi scowled at him, incredulous, but did as he had been told. The rest of them approached and looked at the screen, puzzled, sobered up at the feeling of something meaningful happening.

The screen was showing the Blue Room which exhibited the only three works by Francis Bacon, owned by the tycoon. Quite unsurprisingly, in Tadashi’s opinion, this part of the gallery looked virtually deserted on Christmas night, save for the hired security guard observing the room and two of the guests that were lounging on the leather love seat in the middle and, apparently, managed to ignore the depressing subject matter of the paintings.

One of them was sitting, leaning against the back of the couch. His champagne flute was standing on the side table, half-emptied. Tadashi quickly identified him as Robert Fischer, the heir of the family that owned the collection currently exhibited at the villa.

The boy was quite easy to recognize: a frail eighteen-year-old with porcelain skin, a wave of shoulder-long black hair and beautiful turquoise-blue eyes, intelligent and sad. He was endowed with a fantastic set of lips, full and sensual, which, Tadashi was convinced, would ensure in the future that he be the object of never ending attention of both sexes. It would be honest to say that Tadashi liked the kid, even though he had only met him twice. He was quiet and dignified, a little bit too soft-mannered, shy and still clumsy, an obvious target for parental dissatisfaction. He'd lost his mother at eleven, been shipped to a boarding school and acted tense and self-aware in all interactions involving his father. The old shark disapproved, Tadashi thought, of the girly face, of the too soft voice, of the too gracious frame that brought to memory the lines of the old poem: 

_Ume yanagi sazo wakashu kana onna kana – Plum and willow, boy or woman?_

Now the boy was smiling dazedly, looking drunk and obviously smitten as only teenagers did, who still had to master the art of concealing their affections. He was leaning down and whispering something in the ear of a young man, who was lying on his back, his head in Robert's lap, his feet propped up on the leather arm of the love seat. His champagne flute, barely touched, stood on the floor by the couch.

As limited as the quality of the recording was, Tadashi still could make out that the boy's companion was... remarkable. He was a young man in his late twenties, slim, but well-built, with boyish good looks. Unlike Fischer, who wore a mandatory tux, his friend was dressed in simple black slacks and a crisp white shirt, with the sleeves rolled carelessly up to his elbows, baring the tanned skin of strong forearms, and the shiny face of a gold wrist-watch. The top buttons of his shirt, undone, exposed some chest hair and a bluish stain of a tattoo, peeking out from under the white fabric. His dark hair was cut in a short Mohawk, more conservative than showy, that emphasized the large, well-defined features of his clean-shaven face.

Personality, thought Tadashi, is everything. Robert's friend was, by all means, an attractive guy, but not the most attractive between the two of them. He did have big eyes, a nicely-shaped nose, and well-cut cheekbones. He, too, sported a set of plush, soft lips that belonged on a face of a Hollywood actress rather than a young man. However, as opposed to the sophisticated beauty of Robert Fischer, his guest looked simple, plebeian even.

What made him stand out was the way he carried himself. He was completely, Tadashi realized, exempt from self-doubt. It was his uncomplicated white shirt in a flock of immaculate dinner jackets, his loud, carefree laughter, as if he were indifferent to opinions and other people's judgment, the expression of open, unabashed affection that crossed his face when Robert leaned down to whisper into his ear, the way his wide palm covered Robert's hesitant hand, and pressed it firmly to the bare patch of skin on his chest – that screamed: this is the man you're all trying to be. The air of regality and importance that took people like Arthur and Tadashi years to develop was something this guy possessed naturally. And he was open, too, not afraid to appear vulnerable. Soft. Accessible. It would take an observant man just a few seconds to understand why and how deeply the heir of the billions must have fallen.

And as if all that wasn't enough, there was the guy's voice, soft and murmuring, the kind that would seduce a monk and fill a cold corpse with lust.

On the screen of the monitor, Robert touched a tentative hand to his companion's face, and the latter propped up on his elbow to give him a kiss, unaware of the new security system that was tracking their every move.

Arthur sprang back from the controls desk as if he'd been burned. He straightened up, pulling at the knot of his tie, as if short for breath, and took a few steps backwards, his face crimson, his eyes – two glazed black pools, unreadable. There was a vein pulsating on his left temple, a wild, furious throb.

“Can you zoom in closer?” he breathed out, barely audible.

“I think that's max it can do,” said Kiyoshi, scratching the top of his head, perplexed. “How much closer do you need?”

The only answer they heard was a soft 'ding' of the elevator in the hallway.

They turned around and saw the door of the room closing with a quiet 'whoosh'. Arthur was gone. So was one of the radios from the shelf.


	2. Robbie Fischer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The night was stormy. The wind was howling in the attic. Robbie was a bit spooked. He couldn't relax enough to make himself fall asleep and suddenly regretted not staying at school for the half term as some of his friends had done, but then he figured he didn't have to wait until the end of the week to go back to Charterhouse. Having resolved to change his ticket first thing in the morning, he put on his earphones and considered taking his Diazepam to fall asleep faster. This was when he heard a noise coming from the rooms downstairs.

Father wanted to die in Dublin. He said the place where he'd taken his first breath would be the one where he would take his last. It was right after he'd been diagnosed with lung cancer, long before Angela died. He'd been smoking since age ten. What do you expect? 

So naturally they bought the house. It wasn't exactly in Dublin, more like in a neighbor county, somewhat twenty miles away from the border of the Dublin Region. It was a country estate. In the middle of nowhere, lost in the fields between two tiny villages that had been called towns solely by misconception. Robbie had only been to it a handful of times. The first time was right after they bought it from an old baronet. The last one was on the night of the robbery.

At first, Robbie was unimpressed. Yes, it was long. And old. Yes, it had a grand entrance with columns and the stairs with a baluster. It also had empty rooms, which needed to be restored and filled with objects. The baronet, who was moving his family back to South Africa, obviously, had taken his treasures with him. He, too, wanted to die on the land of his fathers. Angela called the house the barn; the name stuck.

Years passed. Angela died, consumed by cancer in a matter of months. Unlike Father, she was a strong young woman, her cancer was aggressive. Father never recovered. Taciturn by nature, he completely stopped talking on any subject that wasn't work related. His own cancer metastasized, it was now pancreatic. Fifty-five at that time, he continued smoking, having resolved that dropping the habit at that stage wouldn't help. At first Robbie cried a lot because he thought that Father, too, was going to die, but the months flew by and Father still lived. Robbie stopped worrying.

Two years later he was sent to Charterhouse, in Surrey. It was a difficult moment. Father was preoccupied with yet another merger which did not proceed as smoothly as expected. He was very stressed, felt weakened and just started to use the medical ventilator. Robbie's paranoia came back with a vengeance. He spent hours at night praying for Father not to die. Charterhouse was a deliverance. After a couple of months at the new school Robbie began smiling again. He excelled in Art and mastered the piano and cello. Father was proud. By that time he was already in the wheelchair and communicated by means of a notepad. 

Robbie was in the fourth form when Father realized the mistake he had made with the barn. The maintenance of the house had been eating a not unsubstantial sum out of his pocket from year to year. The house was quickly renovated and opened to the public. The tickets were priced at EUR 16 for adults and EUR 12 for seniors and children younger than thirteen. In order to attract the general public they restored the ancient maze in the back of the house grounds and moved the art collection from their London residence to the barn. The house now accepted visitors daily from May till September, and on week-ends in March and October. For the rest of the year, it was closed for maintenance.

This is how the robbery happened. It was October 31, the Autumn half term. Robbie hadn't gone home for holidays. Father was staying in London, but he didn't want to see Robbie. This meant Robbie was given a choice: fly to Sydney or remain in Surrey. He chose the barn.

A few things had happened in summer before that. First, Robbie fell in love with a girl and had his heart broken. Second, he realized Father thought he was gay. He'd been aware for quite some time of Father's disapproval of certain things, but it had never occurred to him that any such assumption had been made. Until one night in August when Robbie was summoned to Father's study. 

Father hadn't been feeling well, so he was already in bed. He sent the nurse away the moment Robbie walked in. Robbie expected there would be the talk of which university to go to after the school year was over and of his new haircut which again displeased Father – the usual.

Father seemed ill at ease. He kept silent for some time, chewing on his bottom lip. The air was coming out of his lungs with a wheezing sound. His arthritic hands were trembling on top of the blue coverlet.

Having decided that the conversation was going to be a long one, Robbie took an arm chair from the corner and moved it closer to Father's bed. He sat down. Father glanced at him briefly and cleared his throat.

“Son,” he croaked, “I'm not going to beat around the bush.” There was a pause. The comb-over on top of Father's head was glistening with sweat. “I don't care where you like to stick it.” Robbie's jaw dropped. “You should know one thing,” Father ventured on. “Women are complicated. Having a successful, loving relationship requires effort and patience. It's very easy, especially in one's youth, to give up on all this trouble in favor of a more convenient relationship with another man.” 

“I-,” Robbie began, pushing down the laughter that was bubbling in him. 

Father waved an impatient hand. “But it's a sign of sloth, mere, mundane sloth, unwillingness to assume responsibility and take one's place in life.”

 _“Father,”_ Robbie almost yelled.

“Find a girl you like, get married, have children,” Father raised his voice. There was no way of stopping him when he was like that. Robbie shut up. “Give this family a new generation,” Father's hand was pawing blindly on top of the bedside table, searching for the inhaler. Robbie got up, took the pink actuator from where it was hiding under the morning newspaper and shook it well before pushing it into Father's trembling hands.

Father took a breath from the inhaler. His eyes slid closed as he sank back into the pillows, exhausted. Robbie considered his options. Trying to deny things was pointless. His only way out of this conversation was to give Father what he wanted. 

“Yes, Father,” he said, striving for repentance, “you are right. I've been thinking about it. There's this girl at school...”

He left the study an hour later, having purged his soul and given a promise to hold firm to Father's edict. Father had fallen asleep. Robbie returned to his room and cried. Father had been growing weaker in mind by the day. He'd become pliable and easily influenced, Robbie couldn't rely on him any longer. And the worst part was that there was definitely someone between them who was playing against Robbie, spreading lies, trying to drive a wedge between Robbie and Father. Someone very close, a friend or one of the family. It was an awful discovery. 

Robbie had never doubted Father's love for him. He realized early on that he'd been spoiled, after Angela's death especially. There was nothing left of her but Robbie, and in many respects he received enough love to sustain two people. Father had always been appallingly bad at communicating his feelings. He was not an emotional man. Robbie, however, had never trusted words. He looked at the actions. And Father's actions spoke for themselves: Robbie didn't get to choose the school he was sent to, he wasn't allowed to have everything he wanted, but he was treated with respect and tenderness, his opinion counted, he was trusted. Father would never say how much he loved him, but he was never stingy with non-verbal displays of affection either. Robbie and Father had always been _friends_. They were accomplices, two against the world.

And now this.

In a phone conversation on the last day before the school break Father asked him not to come to the London house for the vacation. He had the legal team on, he said, and they were so preoccupied he wouldn't have time for Robbie anyway. He promised they'd spend the Christmas break together, provided Father's condition improved. It was a blow. Robbie realized the saboteur had not been wasting time. 

After a careful consideration, Robbie decided against Sydney. He needed to be left alone to think over the situation, and it would be impossible to do, if he were to spend his time surrounded by aunts and cousins, and such. He wouldn't bear staying in London all by himself either, knowing Father was in town and he wasn't allowed to see him. This was when he remembered about the barn. 

He called Mr. Stevens, the managing director, and informed him of his intention to come and stay at the house for the duration of the following week. It was going to be the last week-end of October. As of Monday, the barn would be closed to the public. Mr. Stevens promised to get the living quarters ready and arrange a transfer from the airport to the house. 

The house boasted its own security team which was composed of a few very fit inhabitants of the nearby village. There were eight of them during the periods when the barn was open to the public. This number shrank down to two from November till March. They operated from a booth built near the main gates. Knowing that, Robbie reasoned against bringing his driver for the duration of his stay. There would be a house-keeper and a cook coming in on a daily basis, Mr. Stevens assured. The managing director himself would be in the office every other day. Robbie could use one of the management cars if he wanted to go to town or travel to Dublin. Robbie was all set.

He arrived at the barn late in the evening, quickly phoned Father's PA and informed him of his whereabouts. Father had already gone to bed. Robbie had dinner all by himself and then began working on his half term project. He was eighteen pages deep into his research paper when he had a call from the security guards informing him that the alarm system was on and they would be performing hourly rounds according to the schedule. Robbie could let them know if he needed anything, they'd pass the note to the house-keeper in the morning. Robbie checked the clock, it was already past eleven. He saved the file and began getting ready for bed.

The night was stormy. The wind was howling in the attic. Robbie was a bit spooked. He couldn't relax enough to make himself fall asleep and suddenly regretted not staying at school for the half term as some of his friends had done, but then he figured he didn't have to wait until the end of the week to go back to Charterhouse. Having resolved to change his ticket first thing in the morning, he put on his earphones and considered taking his Diazepam to fall asleep faster. This was when he heard a noise coming from the rooms downstairs.

At first he thought he was hearing things. He lifted the earphones and listened. Nothing but the wind and tap-tap-tap of the rain on the window. And then there was the noise again. Someone was in the living room on the first floor. Robbie froze. It took him a considerable physical effort not to fly off the bed and hide in the old walk-in closet in the back of the room. 

Robbie wasn't a coward. He wasn't even easily intimidated. But Robbie had had an incident a few months prior after which he hadn't been quite the same person. 

The noise could be heard again. It sounded as if someone had thumped into the wall in the dark. Robbie jumped up in his bed and gritted his teeth in an attempt to suppress the fear. 

Now it was a challenge. Robbie could crawl into the closet as he'd already done once and try and phone the security booth from there. Or he could pull himself together and go and check all by himself if there was truly something to be afraid of. At one moment he even thought that it was probably one of the guards doing the hourly rounds when it occurred to him that the living quarters weren't patrolled. And if indeed there was a guard around, he was probably in another wing, hundreds of yards away. Robbie threw the blanket off with a jerk. 

He crept down the dark hallway. As he approached the grand staircase that led to the living room, he realized he wasn't even armed to fend an attack if one happened. If he'd been in the London residence, he would have at least grabbed the air gun from top of the wardrobe in his bedroom, but here there was nothing he could use besides the antique duelling pistols that hung on the wall in the hallway. Robbie figured one of those would be good enough for show. Anyway, he had his phone directory open at the number of the security booth, his thumb was on the dial button. Even if the burglars figured he wasn't able to fire the pistol, their shocked state would still win him a few precious seconds to alert the security. 

Robbie carefully removed the smaller pistol from the wall and tiptoed down the stairs. The switch was on the first floor. If he managed to get there unnoticed, the battle would be half won. He could hear the burglar moving around the room. By this time Robbie was pretty sure the thief worked alone. As he followed the spiral of the stairs, he saw the light of a single flash light on the opposite wall.

The light of the ceiling chandelier was quite dim, but to Robbie it seemed blinding.

“Freeze!” he shouted and pointed the pistol at the burglar.

It appeared he'd guessed it right. By the wall carrying some of Father's favorite paintings he saw a man in a black ski mask. Robbie caught him as he was taking one of the paintings off the wall. 

“Bugger!” hollered the startled crook and dropped the painting he was holding. It was a [portrait](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Portrait_of_Dr._Gachet.jpg) of a middle-aged man, wearing a goatee and a cap, leaning pensively over a table with a few yellow books and a vase containing bluish flowers. The painting was uncased, it landed on the thick Persian rug with a quiet thump.

“On the floor! Mask off!” Robbie ordered, feeling giddy with the success of the operation. 

The man raised his hands in the air. Slowly he turned and stared at Robbie, his mouth slightly open, his eyes round with shock. 

“Alright, fine,” said the guy when he managed to regain control of his speech. He lowered himself carefully on the floor. “Just please don't shoot, will you?” He didn't lie down as Robbie had expected, but sat with his legs crossed. 

“Mask off,” reminded Robbie. His fingers were slippery on the screen of the mobile. He was about to press the dial button when his brain registered which painting the burglar was trying to steal. 

Robbie had completely forgotten Father had moved it here. He looked at two other paintings still on the wall and felt the hair on his nape stand on end.

Quickly he switched off the phone and put it in the pocket of his track pants. The crook was following Robbie's every move with a sharp, guarded look in his eyes. When he saw that Robbie wasn't going to call the police, he took off the mask and used it to wipe his face. He turned out to be quite young, sported the same short haircut as many of Robbie's friends at school and was dressed completely in black.

Robbie took a closer look at his catch.

The guy was – 'ripped' would be the right word. The thin fabric of the black t-shirt he had on bunched under the pull of muscles as he cracked his fingers in a nervous gesture. He was lean and flexible, his cargo pants hanging low on the slender hips. The way the t-shirt clang to the guy's chest and stomach made Robbie fully understand the meaning of the expression 'washboard abs'. A pair of leather gloves and a tool belt completed the crook's outfit. On the floor under the grand piano Robbie saw a large messenger brief in black leather, probably destined for the painting. The crook's trench-coat, the expensive jade-black gabardine, was hanging from the back of a chair nearby. 

They were about to be burglarized in style, Robbie thought, suppressing a smile. The intruder didn't look threatening at all. Robbie had seen _real_ housebreakers. This guy looked nothing like them. He was definitely not a violent type. 

“Listen, lovely,” the thief said softly, and Robbie noted that the guy was in possession of a pleasant voice. “I clearly got the wrong house number.” 

“Why are you-,” Robbie began and was interrupted by the phone that started ringing on the coffee table in the middle of the room.

Ah, the security booth.

“Excuse me,” said Robbie, backing in the direction of the phone, his pistol still trained on the intruder. He frowned at the brief, incredulous half-smile that crossed the crook's face. 

The conversation was short. It appeared the guards saw the light go on on the first floor and decided to check if Robbie was okay. Yes, Robbie reported, he was downstairs. Just an unexpected bout of insomnia. Nothing worth worrying.

The burglar waited for the exchange to be over, cheek propped up on one hand, and looking positively bored. This type of attitude wouldn't do at all. Robbie put down the receiver and then yelled at the intruder, cocking his gun for good measure. 

“Why this particular painting? Answer?!”

The trick worked, even if not exactly as intended.

“Jesus Christ,” muttered the crook, blanching and flinching to the side, as if trying to avoid the muzzle staring in his face. 

A bad experience with guns, Robbie noted. Very well, it was still leverage. Robbie wasn't a mean person, he most definitely didn't enjoy hurting or intimidating other people, but he couldn't argue that seeing the expression of raw fear on his opponent's face filled him with a strange sense of satisfaction.

“Speak!” he demanded, poking the air with the gun.

At this moment the quiet of the night was broken by a loud, somber voice that informed them in an unmistakable 'hood' accent that even though he had a million ways to get it, they still had to choose only one, followed by an almost Greek choir of African American voices advising them to move on to the next opportunity that would present itself. The tune went on and on, incredibly loud. 

Robbie was startled out of his mind, that's if you were to put it mildly. He jumped up where he stood, and the pistol that he'd stopped clutching, having resolved that the crook posed no real threat, flew out of his sweaty hand and landed on the floor.

Robbie squeezed his eyes shut and covered his ears, expecting to hear gunfire. The pistol didn't shoot. 

When he chanced his eyes open and cast a look around the room, he realized he was presented with a problem. The tune that was coming out of the leather messenger had finally stopped. The room was quiet, the gun had bounced off the floor and was now lying a couple of feet away, under the leg of the grand piano.

As for the burglar, he'd fallen awkwardly to one side, his eyes closed and his body limp. For a short second, Robbie was consumed with terror as he thought that the gun had fired somehow and the man was dead. However, he soon noticed that the guy was breathing, a barely noticeable expansion of his chest. The intruder had fainted or pretended to, Robbie wasn't quite sure about that part. Dead or not, the unconscious body in the living room still presented an unwanted development. If not solved immediately, the problem could lead to uncomfortable questions and police interference. Robbie stared at the painting that was lying on the floor behind the burglar. 

Carefully, keeping his eyes on the crook, he crept to the grand piano and retrieved the pistol. Then he knelt in front of the man, raised his hand aiming to slap the guy's face, and stopped.

God, he was handsome. And seemed practically baby-faced. Robbie himself was not bad-looking, but he couldn't help an irrational pull of jealousy as he took in the long eyelashes, big, well-defined features and absolutely incongruous, feminine lips on the crooks very masculine face. The guy's perfectly-tweezed eyebrows, his smooth, golden tan, the diamond earring shining in his left ear, the genuine gold Rolex on his wrist – it all almost made Robbie roll his eyes. As he peered closer, Robbie noticed that the lips in question were covered in a generous amount of pinkish lip gloss. “Fucking faggot,” was the epithet Father would employ to characterize Robbie's uninvited guest.

Robbie felt awfully bad about slapping this beautiful face. He tried to be gentle. The guy regained consciousness almost immediately. As soon as his gray eyes focused on Robbie, the burglar shrank away, looking horrified. 

“It's okay,” said Robbie and put the gun aside. He showed his hands to the man palms first as he'd been taught to do in his Psych class. Apparently, the trick didn't work because he crook's eyes darted about the room, as if searching for an escape route. With a sigh, Robbie rose from the floor, having tucked the pistol behind the waist of his track pants. One couldn't trust burglars in such serious matters, no matter how sensitive they acted.

Robbie opened the mini-bar in the bottom compartment of an antediluvian Chippendale occupying one of the corners of the living room, took out a half-finished bottle of something old, probably a Laphroaig, and a glass. He sat on the floor next to his guest and offered him a double shot. 

The crook, who'd realized he was out of danger, managed to pull himself together and accepted the whiskey with an uncertain half-smile. 

“Brandishing guns in people's faces is a very annoying habit, I'll let you know,” he said after he emptied the glass in one gulp.

“Really?” Robbie bit back, stuck somewhere between outraged and exhilarated. “How 'bout breaking into people's houses in the middle of the night then?”

The burglar gave a short embarrassed laugh. “Touché,” he replied with a nod. “Will it make me seem like a more pleasant person, if I promise to renounce my crooked ways in the nearest future?” he asked and then did something unthinkable – batted his eyelashes at Rob. He had very beautiful eyes – dark gray, sharp and mischievous.

Robbie drew back almost beside himself. Something must have registered on his face because the guy realized his blunder and attempted to redeem himself by grabbing Robbie's hands and yelling, “Oh, oh, oh! It's not like that!” which frankly only made the matters worse.

Robbie's shoulders shook with soundless laughter. The burglar observed him, still smiling, sheepish and confused. Robbie felt... victorious. He'd just acted in an adult manner, prevented a crime and, most importantly, had managed to ignore the smothering grasp of fear that had been placed inside him on the night of the incident. Sadly, that last thought dampened his spirits. It reminded him that he wasn't having fun time with his friend. There was an actual stranger in his house whose intentions were not all that clear. 

“You've got to go, don't you?” Robbie said and pulled his hands out of the warm clutch of the intruder's palms. 

“Ah,” replied the burglar, sounding relieved. “Of course.” He swiftly rose to his feet and reached for the leather messenger, taking off his tool belt as he went and throwing it inside the bag. 

“Can I?” Robbie gestured at the bag, feeling a bit overwhelmed by the spectacular view of the guy's back as the crook bent down to get it from under the grand piano.

“Sure,” the burglar pushed the messenger in Robbie's direction and began pulling on his trench-coat, clearly in a rush to leave. 

The bag was empty, save for the tools – a set of picklocks, a flashlight and some actual screwdrivers – the PDA and the ski mask. There was nothing inside that belonged in the barn. The intruder had buckled the belt on his trench and was waiting for Robbie to finish with the frisk, leaning against the piano, looking like a spread from a fashion catalogue. 

“You know,” said the crook, staring worriedly at the weather outside, “that phone call we missed – it was actually my ride. They're supposed to take off without me if I don't show up within an hour after the signal.”

Robbie handed the messenger back to its owner. The crook accepted it with a courteous 'thank you'.

“Um, I'm sorry about the-,” the guy gestured at the painting still lying on the floor. Robbie had only then noticed that the bottom part of the framing had come off on one corner. It was alright though, nothing Robbie couldn't fix.

“It's fine,” he answered with a shrug. “Nobody pays attention to them anyway.” 

“Alright then,” said the burglar. “Care to see me off?”

They crossed the hallway, entered the dark kitchen and stopped by the delivery door.

“It's been a pleasure,” the burglar shook Robbie's hand. He then reached into the chest pocket of his coat and produced a business card, which Robbie accepted, straining to read the inscription under the dim light of the 'Exit' sign. There was no name, just a phone number.

“Were are you staying?” Robbie asked, because the crook, whose mobile was registered in the UK, was obviously in Co. Wicklow with a brief visit. 

“The Clarion, in Dublin. Under Eames, if you decide to pay a visit.” He smiled at Robbie, and the light fell on the diamond in his ear, making it gleam. “What, you need something stolen? Already?”

“Nothing that I know of,” Robbie answered, considering. “And certainly not by someone of your...expertise?”

The crook scoffed and shook his head. “My bad.” Having said that, he winked at Robbie, pushed the delivery door open and disappeared into the rain.

Robbie locked the door behind the hapless burglar, punched in a series of numbers on the electronic lock to set the alarm on, and then banged his forehead on the wall with a moan: he'd totally forgotten to find out, while he still had the firearm advantage, how the guy had managed to bypass the security system.

Mentally scolding himself for being a goose, he got back to the living room. The left corner on the bottom section of the L-shaped frame had come out of its grooves as the picture had hit the floor. Robbie knocked the plank back in place with a single practiced move and returned the portrait to where it had been hanging, between a [landscape](http://www.vangoghmuseum.nl/vgm/index.jsp?page=2935&lang=en), depicting a lone reaper on the edge of the golden field of wheat, and a glum [still life](http://www.vangoghmuseum.nl/vgm/index.jsp?page=1769&collection=1297&lang=en) – a vase of half-seared asters, set against a maroon background. 

Robbie wasn't surprised Father favored these particular paintings to the point that he had ordered to place them in the living room of the house which he considered his place of repose, where he planned to come and die when his time was up. The paintings were humble – one of the qualities Father valued the most, in others and himself equally. They served as a reminder that life was in fact short, beauty withered faster than one expected, and hard work under the scorching light of the merciless sun – an allegory for God, Robbie was convinced – was the only way one could follow to achieve his goals. 

As a child, Robbie liked to imagine Father as the lonely figure in the straw hat, an industrious laborer fearlessly confronting the endless, impetuous sea of gold wheat, conquering the chaos with his sickle, leaving behind himself an orderly structure – the neatly stacked reaps, depositories of precious grain, metaphors for money and power.

He liked the still life as well. The asters were sad. The most fragile ones had had their stems broken, their crimpy heads, torn off, covered the surface of the table. The textural difference, Robbie mused, the delicate petals against the rough wood – the misconceptions of youth dispelled by adult life. The three yellow buds on top of the composition – the anticipation of future upheavals, a cautious mind, always alert, a strategist. The only dark-colored flower hidden in the middle of the bouquet – the heart of deep burgundy, radiant and compelling. No matter how many different angles Robbie employed while analyzing the still life – it always turned into another description of Father.

The portrait, on the other hand, was a memory: a dark figure vanishing slowly into the evening light. Father bought it the year of Angela's death, from an Italian pasta maker. The 'crying' eyes on the meditative face of the sitter – the acceptance of impending loss; the two books in bright yellow being his sole companions – the accounts of life they once had. 

Robbie made sure that the portrait was set securely on its hangers, returned the bottle on its shelf inside the Chippendale and headed to the kitchen to make himself a sandwich as he was suddenly starving. As he bent down to take a jar of pickles from the bottom shelf of the fridge, something fell on the tile floor behind his back with a deafening crack. He looked around and saw the antique pistol he'd tucked behind the belt of his pants and then forgotten about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today is my birthday. I wanted to wait till the next chapter is done before posting it, but I decided to make a small gift to myself. As usual, beta-read by immoral-crow. I am responsible for all the remaining mistakes.


	3. Yusuf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> About an hour later, when Robbie Fischer was fast asleep in his bed, and the hour hand on the clock of St Patrick's Cathedral was nearing three, Yusuf Attal was sitting on the balcony of his hotel room, admiring the spectacular view of the River Liffey with the harp-like spar of the Samuel Beckett Bridge glowing gently in the dark.

About an hour later, when Robbie Fischer was fast asleep in his bed, and the hour hand on the clock of St Patrick's Cathedral was nearing three, Yusuf Attal was sitting on the balcony of his hotel room, admiring the spectacular view of the River Liffey with the harp-like spar of the Samuel Beckett Bridge glowing gently in the dark. The yellow lights of the bridge were emphasized by the fluorescent blue of the curved glass walls of the Convention Centre further down the quay. The temperature outside was nearing zero, the air was humid. Yusuf was wearing a hotel blanket on top of his favorite night robe and a pair of fluffy slippers that barely covered the soles of his large, puffy feet.

He heard a door open and close with a bang inside the penthouse. “Yusuf!” yelled a familiar voice somewhere in the back of the room. Yusuf sighed and cast one last forlorn look at the radiant city below. He entered the penthouse, shutting the door of the deck behind him to prevent the cold air from coming in. The shower went on in the rooms on the second level. Yusuf crossed the spacious sitting area and switched on the lights in the dining vault. 

Near one of the chairs by the dinner table he saw a wet black coat and a messenger brief, abandoned carelessly on the floor. Ah, thought Yusuf, tired, aren't we? He hung the brief and the coat on the back of the chair. This was when he noticed a clear evidence bag waiting for him on the table. Yusuf frowned and reached for his glasses. The bag contained a few particles of yellow and brown dust. It was definitely good news. The bad news was that Yusuf had been expecting three evidence bags, not just one. He listened to the stomping of feet upstairs. Nutrition, he decided, comes first. There'll be time for questions later.

He lifted the lid off an enormous steel tray, occupying almost one third of the dinner table and began setting up a table for two. The food had gone cold some time before, but his companion wasn't picky. Yusuf was in the process of opening the wine when he heard the padding of wet feet on the floor. He put the bottle aside, took a plate with a venison steak from the tray and placed it in front of his colleague and best friend who'd slipped into a seat beside him and was waiting to be served, steak knife and fork ready. 

“Ohhh,” Eames exclaimed with a cheerful smile. “Is that mashed potatoes?” He was wearing nothing but a bath towel.

Yusuf scowled disapprovingly at the bright-eyed bit of a totty that was now his friend. At least, he told himself, this persona isn't brooding. 

“I assume,” he began, pouring out the wine, “it didn't go well.”

“Not well,” agreed his companion, cutting through the meat, an expression of utter satisfaction on his face.

“By all means,” said Yusuf, taking a seat across the table, “tell me more.”

“The boy was there,” Eames stopped chewing. “He came after me with an antique pistol.”

Yusuf's hand, holding the glass of wine, froze on the way to his lips. “Are you alright?” He gave his friend a quick once-over. 

“Yeah,” Eames nodded, hunching over his plate. “I nearly shat myself, though.” He smiled. “Fischer Jr, of all people. Who could have known?” 

“Wasn't he supposed to go to Sydney for the half term?” Yusuf asked, considering.

“All I know is that he caught me when I was about to do the portrait.” Eames was suddenly busy looking for something on the bottom of his plate.

“Bollocks.” Yusuf put his glass on the table with more force that was strictly necessary. “What did you _manage_ to do, then?”

Eames pinned some green peas on the tines of his fork. “I did the landscape.” He stared at Yusuf plaintively, clearly trying for an ingenue.

Yusuf shook his head, “Overacting much.” 

“I am, aren't I?” said Eames, looking completely unperturbed, and burrowed deeper into his mashed potatoes.

They kept silent for a minute, Eames demolishing the rest of his meal, Yusuf brainstorming. 

“Okay,” Yusuf said finally, “laboratory analysis is not everything. What do _you_ think? You've been to the house, you've seen the painting.”

“Judging from the boy's reaction?” Eames clarified. Yusuf nodded. “The portrait is a forgery,” Eames said with finality, not a shadow of doubt in his voice.

“Why?” Yusuf sat up in his chair.

Eames gave him a pitying look, as if Yusuf had been an imbecile. “I'm still here, aren't I? You didn't have to travel to Blessington to bail me out,” he said with a smirk. “He was going to call the police. Until he saw the painting.”

“And,” Yusuf was practically lying on the table, trying to read the answers on Eames's face.

“I'll phone Saito in a moment,” Eames said. “He could greenlight the buying procedures. Let's see what Fischer Sr or Fischer Jr will do about that.”

“Wait,” Yusuf drew back, “you think Maurice doesn't know?”

“I think he's not crazy enough to try and sell a forgery -- even a very good one – as the real thing. Wrong century.” He shrugged.

“So the boy knows? Is that what you're trying to tell?” 

“I think Maurice was robbed, quite some time ago. The original was replaced with a fake.”

“So the source isn't lying,” Yusuf mumbled, staring at his wine, “someone _is_ trying to fence a real Van Gogh stolen from Fischer's collection.”

“The important question is the provenance of the forgery,” Eames was rubbing his chin pensively. “If we find out where it comes from, we'll find out who's behind the scheme.”

…

Yusuf had had a wake-up call scheduled for seven in the morning, entirely too early to be comfortable. He shaved, swallowed his breakfast and spent some time on the sofa in the sitting area looking through the files collected by Saito's legal department. He was ruminating on the strange bird that was Fischer Jr when his cab arrived. 

Eames wasn't going to be up until noon Yusuf's experience prompted. When he opened the door of the bedroom his friend occupied on the second floor, all he saw was one bare foot sticking out of a cloud of white sheets and blankets. 

“I'm headed to the airport,” said Yusuf, glancing around the room: very neat apart from the clothes strewn on the floor. The balcony door was open, letting the freezing air in, the wind playing with the curtains. 

“Okay,” was the answer. Eames didn't move.

“Let me know when Fischer Jr calls,” Yusuf made sure not to sound too patronizing. “Don't decide anything on your own. Is that clear?”

“Yes.”

“And don't get carried away,” he frowned, striving to remember what other important points he had to cover. “Keep yourself in check, you know what I mean.”

Silence.

“I'll see you in London.”

“See you, Daddy.” Eames sounded small, almost baby-soft.

“Wanker,” said Yusuf and closed the door.

…

 

_Yusuf Attal was born in Peterborough. His father owned a restaurant where teenaged Yusuf worked with his mother and brothers, the tenth of eleven children. Yusuf's father was driving a Jag, his mother barely left the house when she didn't have to go to work. She spoke English, but failed to integrate._

_As soon as Yusuf turned eighteen, he married an Italian girl whose father had been employed by the London Brick Company. It meant that in the afternoon of his wedding day, Yusuf, sporting a spectacular shiner under his left eye, had to grab two bags containing his study materials and basic belongings that his sisters had helped him pack the night before and scarper out of the kitchen door into the back street where his new wife and his father-in-law had been waiting for him in the car. At the same time, Yusuf's mother and siblings, gathered in the living room, were holding off his father, who was screaming and wailing, threatening to cut Yusuf's head off, and brandishing a kitchen knife._

_The head of the family had sustained a broken nose in the short scuffle that had followed after Yusuf had informed him of the change in his marital situation. The old man was about to pursue his runaway offspring when suddenly he was confronted by the six young men and women his unmarried children had become while he was busy living his life. Yusuf's father was overpowered. They stripped him of his weapon and exiled him to the guest room on the second floor where there was nothing he could use to hurt others or himself. It was a coup d'état in an individual Muslim family._

_The next morning a van hired by Yusuf's brothers brought the rest of his belongings to a small terraced home Yusuf now shared with his wife, Giuliana, and her father, Tano. The minuscule two-bedroom, boasting a backyard the size of a handkerchief, was nothing like the three storied mastodon Yusuf had grown up in. Yusuf was overcome with a quiet triumph. He and his wife had been an item since high school. Only someone as bull-headed and unobservant as Yusuf's father could entertain the idea of forcing his younger son into an arranged marriage._

_Tano was a single parent. He'd lived in Peterborough for twenty-five years, working in construction, but remained forever a foreigner. He didn't mind his son-in-law being a Muslim. Unlike most of the local lads, Yusuf didn't drink. He was smart – book-smart and streetwise equally. Having grown up with ten other people, he was never at a loss for words and not afraid to use his fists in a fight. And most importantly, he worshipped Giuliana. Thinking of his own mother, Yusuf made it a point that his wife didn't have to work a single day, unless she wanted to._

_One month after his exodus, Yusuf became a father to a healthy baby boy. It was, without a doubt, the happiest day of his life. He spent the next five years dividing his time between university, the construction firm where his father-in-law had helped him secure an employment, and helping Giuliana with the baby. At twenty-three he received his MEng from Loughborough University which at that time still had a campus in Peterborough. Tano hoped he would find an employment with one of the numerous chemical manufacturers in the region, but Yusuf, who had planned a completely different career path for himself, moved his small family to London._

_Yusuf Attal, soft-spoken and mild-mannered, had a deep-seated streak for danger. He was a family man who also wanted to serve his country. And happened to be in possession of a very rare – at the epoch – and coveted degree. The day he was recruited he knew his fate was sealed. The year was 1997: Eastern Europe was in ashes, the World Trade Center had survived its first bombing a few years prior, and nuclear weapons had been running politically out of date. It was time of new technologies. Yusuf made peace with the role of an absentee father and never looked back._

…

His phone rang at a quarter past midnight. Yusuf was hiding in the kitchen, reading through the test results. His cup of tea, barely touched, was getting cold on the kitchen table. Giuliana was watching TV in the living room. Some talk show; she croaked like an old crow, laughing with the audience members. Yusuf enjoyed every minute of it. 

“Fischer Jr called,” said Eames. He sounded a bit out of breath. 

“What are you doing?” asked Yusuf. He'd already calmed down after the initial hype of nervousness he usually experienced after seeing the test results. 

“I'm in the gym,” was the reply. He groaned. “Just finished.”

“He asked to meet you?”

“Tomorrow at nine.” There was a noise of a door banging against the locker. “He called me once, a couple of hours ago. I was doing cardio, didn't hear the phone. So he called again. Pretty fast, huh?”

“And desperate.” Yusuf agreed.

“Less than twenty-four hours and the machine is moving.” 

“What's the plan then?” Yusuf frowned.

“I'm gonna stick around,” said Eames, “meet the boy tomorrow, listen to his offer.”

“What for?” Yusuf startled. “He called. That means the portrait must be forged. We've determined we we'd guessed it right-”

“Saito wants the painting,” was the answer. 

“What, the forgery? Is he still buying after what you've told him?”

“'Course not,” Eames sighed. “He wants me to work on the boy. In his humble opinion, Fischer Jr's the only sure lead we have. I should employ my exceptional abilities to pry the secret out of the heir. That's a direct quote, can you tell?” He scoffed. “I just spent twenty minutes on the phone with Tokyo trying to convince him how dangerous and fruitless this course of actions might prove.”

“Arguing the price, you mean.” Yusuf smirked and reached for his tea.

“Exactly.” He was definitely smiling now. “I must admit he was very persuasive. I'm doing it.”

“Just – avoid unnecessary cruelty, will you?” Yusuf advised. “Keep in mind: you're gonna be dealing with a teenager. They're all sick in the head.”

“Yeah, yeah. Okay. How's Julian by the way?”

“He's in Cambridge,” Yusuf replied, putting the papers aside. “Biomedical Science at Ruskin.”

“Oh, already? I didn't know...” He sounded genuinely surprised. So full of himself, Yusuf thought.

“He visited a couple of times, but I was away. Haven't seen him since August.”

They fell silent for a moment.

“Care to hear the test results?” Yusuf asked finally. An olive branch of sorts. Even though it wasn't Eames's fault that Yusuf at times spent nine months in a row out of country.

“Sure, bring it on.”

“The landscape is a Van Gogh.” Yusuf informed, still a bit cross.

“Thought so.”

There wasn't much left to say after that.

…

_Yusuf had been in service for five years when he was first partnered up with Novitiate. Of course he had different aliases, the nickname was Yusuf's creation._

_“An exceptionally talented operative,” Yusuf's superior, known then as Peter, said before introducing them. 'Exceptional' and 'exceptionally' were the words Yusuf was going to hear a lot, but he yet had to learn that._

_The exceptional talent in question turned out to be a scrawny youth in a patched up hoodie and track pants who looked just like one of the blokes selling fake Rolex in the street corner. He was shorter than Yusuf and seemed tragically underfed. Yusuf's eyes lingered on a long, pale neck, dirty mousy-colored hair gathered in a ponytail, chapped lips._

_As Yusuf and his superior approached the guy's desk, Novitiate abandoned his reading and greeted them with a barely audible 'hello'. He had an earphone tucked in one ear, the volume being so loud that Yusuf could hear a somber voice in the player repeating words in Pashto over and over again. As they took seats next to him, the guy made a half-hearted attempt at hospitality by pushing the folders on his desk aside which resulted in some of the papers spilling on the floor. Novitiate ignored the mess, listening absent-mindedly to the introduction given by Peter. It was creative chaos, Yusuf realized later, but at the time the clutter just made him cringe._

_Yusuf could live with all of the above. He didn't expect all field agents to be ex-SAS types and was in general opposed to cookie cutter approach. There were, however, certain things about his new partner that made Yusuf question the judgment of his supervisor. It was probably the absent, empty expression on the guy's long, sheep-like face, the indifference in his eyes, his introverted, subdued behavior that set Yusuf's teeth on edge. He couldn't bring himself to trust a seemingly healthy young male, employed supposedly in a very specific line of work, who behaved like he belonged in a seminary or an elderly institution._

_As their superior began to debrief them on the details, Novitiate fished a shabby block-note from the pile of papers on his desk and began scribbling down notes. His pencil moved slowly, he was definitely unfamiliar with short-hand. Yusuf squinted at the clumsy, blocky words that looked like they were written by a five-year-old and nearly gasped at a sudden revelation. Dyslexia, a thought flashed through his mind, definitely ADD. What's he taking? Probably Ritalin._

_Having spent a sleepless night, Yusuf paid a visit to Peter first thing in the morning. Yusuf's son had just turned ten, Giuliana was a stay-at-home mom, Tano had been retired, which left Yusuf the only provider to the family. Yusuf's soon-to-be-partner was going to leave for Afghanistan by the end of the week, and less than a month after that Yusuf was going to join him in an undercover project concerning a drug trafficking ring, supplying heroin to the UK through a connection at a British military base. The perspective of undercover job alone was terrifying, the knowledge that he was going to spend many weeks in the company of a bovine-faced, obscure character, who failed to inspire even a slightest gleam of trust, made the matters much, much worse._

_His superior listened to Yusuf's reasons with a calm, understanding look on his face. He didn't interrupt, giving Yusuf a chance to express his concerns in full. When Yusuf was finally finished, Peter searched for something on his laptop, and then rose, inviting Yusuf to take his seat behind the desk._

_Astonished, Yusuf stared at a personal file that belonged to a field agent with two years of successful undercover work under his belt – that along with an impressive juvenile record which included, among other things, fencing, drug dealing and prostitution. Yusuf wiped his glasses that had gone misty and read the last part again. He hadn't misread anything, 'prostitution' was the word, followed by a no less disturbing 'identity theft' and 'impersonation of a deceased'. Having read that the operative in question had used the stolen identity to enlist, managed to serve two years in the Air Corps and then passed the selection and served one year in 14 Intelligence Company before getting busted, Yusuf took another look at the black and white picture of the owner of the breathtaking criminal record. He saw a crew cut, big ears, a neat plaid button-down. An earnest, straight-laced type. All of Yusuf's question regarding how the young man had managed to run such a long con were answered then and there._

_“Since when are we recruiting-” Yusuf began._

_“That's a juvenile record,” Peter interrupted, “apart from the identity theft, of course. But even that he started at sixteen. This is how we recruited him, three years ago.”_

_“It looks intimidating, I admit,” said Yusuf._

_“Do you feel better about working with him now?”_

_Yusuf remembered the sharp cheekbones on the long, thin face, the way his soon-to-be partner avoided looking him in the eyes._

_“He's got exceptional self-control, and is a decision-maker.” Peter looked like he was advertising a young bride, Yusuf couldn't help noticing. “But, unfortunately, that's the reason why we have to constantly keep an eye on him. He's got a very creative approach to rules and regulations.”_

_“You want me to report on him?” Yusuf raised his eyebrows._

_“Yes, when you deem necessary. And also prevent him from committing actions that might harm him or the mission.”_

_“How am I going to do that?” Yusuf's eyebrows were crawling higher and higher up his face._

_“He needs someone to bounce ideas off, to let him know when he gets carried away. An anchor.”_

_Bloody marvelous, Yusuf thought. Seven years in school, sleepless nights, months and months spent away from family – all that to end up as a nanny to an unstable element. This is what his career had come to._

_…_

_It happened long before millions of investors' dollars started pouring into Kandahar's economy, prompting the reconstruction of the devastated city, erection of new neighborhoods and even a football arena. At the epoch Kandahar was still in ruins, parts of it depopulated, only a few areas in the whole city boasting the availability of electricity and running water. It was one of those more privileged neighborhoods that housed the team of British PMCs – short for private military contractor -- who ensured the security of a prominent local businessman who himself happened to be a contractor for the U.S. Central Intelligence Agency. A circumstance which obviously wasn't part of public knowledge._

_It was late in the afternoon when Yusuf entered the hallway of an ancient two-story building in Shahr-e Naw. The walk-up had a gorgeous facade of lapis lazuli blue, with a row of ancient columns supporting the roof of the porch. He stepped through the arched, door-less entrance, crossed the quiet, dusty lobby and took the rickety stairs to the second floor._

_The only light in the hallway upstairs came from an open balcony door at the end of the long corridor with rows of apartment doors on both sides. A door opened and slammed shut behind Yusuf's back, and two kids, carrying a football, rolled down the stairs. Yusuf heard them scream outside calling for their friends. Despite the darkness, locating the apartment Yusuf was looking for did not pose a problem._

_He followed the sound of a gravelly, low voice, vocalizing along with some African American songstress who complained to her beloved that even though she loved him, he still made her blue, and, therefore, lovin' him made her utterly confused. Yusuf stopped in front of the door of the apartment the music was coming from, wrinkled his nose at the unmistakable smell of fried bacon intermixed with the stench of tobacco, and rang the bell._

_The music stopped. The man on the other side of the door listened. Yusuf knocked._

_“Give me a minute,” shouted a raspy voice in the back of the apartment, and in the silence that fell Yusuf heard the clank of a frying pan being moved on the stove and then – the shuffle of approaching footsteps behind the door. The lock turned with a click. Yusuf took a deep breath. The door opened wide, with a yank, and Yusuf and Novitiate faced each other for the first time._

_He'd guessed it right. There was the crew cut again, the deep golden tan, emphasizing a web of pale scars on Novitiate's neck and shoulders, a greyish wife beater, showing off a number of seemingly meaningless tattoos, a pair of worn out track pants. The guy's full lips were stretched into a friendly smile which faded abruptly when he saw who'd rung the bell._

_“He-e-e-y....” Novitiate's mouth opened into a surprised 'O'. “Yusuf?” he finished, and his cold eyes frisked Yusuf's frame._

_Ha! Yusuf smirked. Thought you'd managed to scare me off? “Hello,” he said out loud, with a sweetest smile, and shouldered his way in past his host, who stepped aside and then followed him, scratching the top of his head in confusion._

_Yusuf made his way through a cluttered hallway, bypassing the bathroom door and the only room which probably served as living room and bedroom: a sofabed with a couple of pillows and a folded blanket in a neat pile by the arm rest; a decrepit TV set showing the local news – a recent bombing in the capital which Yusuf had escaped by mere minutes; a coffee table, covered cautiously with a newspaper, on top of which Yusuf saw a half dismantled assault rifle, a cleaning rod and a few bottles with cleaning solutions; a mini office – a laptop and a printer on a shabby desk, a round stool with no back._

_Yusuf took a seat at a tiny table in the kitchen. He refused the bacon and eggs offered by his host, even though the food looked and smelled surprisingly appealing. Novitiate shrugged at that and settled opposite Yusuf who resigned himself to a cup of tea and a slightly burnt toast._

_“Here's the deal,” said Yusuf's partner swallowing a forkful of egg. “I got here a bit later than the rest of the PMCs. So they're all quartered in a building a few blocks down the street, and I'm here all by myself. Here's the roster by the way.” He rose, pawed on top of the fridge and threw a sheet of laminated paper to Yusuf who put his glasses on and took some time studying the names and numbers._

_“Doesn't look like much,” said Yusuf._

_“Right,” Novitiate nodded and pierced a piece of bacon with unnecessary spite. “And it's bloody boring most of the time. And fucking dangerous for the rest of it. The problem is you can't even go out here, because there are no establishments, no alcohol, no gambling. Even going out for a fag can get you killed, I swear to God. So the guys and myself, we spend lots of time hanging out at our quarters and working out.”_

_“Interesting,” said Yusuf, sparing a look at an impressive swirl of muscle on Novitiate's upper arm, as the latter bent his elbow and made a fist to illustrate his words. “What have you got by this point?”_

_Novitiate, who'd annihilated his breakfast, threw the dirty dishes in the sink and raced out of the kitchen. Yusuf heard drawers being open in the living room. He took a look around: a new stereo system on the windowsill, already covered with dust that had caked on top of the layer of kitchen grease nobody bothered to wipe, a sleeping bag and a few blankets rolled on the floor in the corner, a poster of a black girl in a skimpy outfit, unexplained numbers '1979 – 2001' printed on the bottom of the photo._

_Novitiate returned into the kitchen, carrying an open manila envelope. He handed it to Yusuf, who searched inside and took out about ten pages of printed text. Yusuf read, while Novitiate did the dishes and scrubbed the kitchen counter._

_“I mostly hang out with Nick Rutherford.” Yusuf checked the notes for the name. “He's South African, I'm Zimbabwean – we bonded.” Novitiate continued with a smile. “Besides, he and his pal, Alishan, have been here the longest, had a chance to make some friends in town, and even more.” He wiped his hands and sat down._

_“Continue,” Yusuf stared at him over the top of his glasses._

_“If you read a bit further,” Novitiate gestured at the notes, “you'd see that they're being very careful. They don't ship that often, maybe once a month, or once in two months. They're experienced, not greedy. Fully aware of the repercussions in case they get busted.” He chewed at his nail, nervous._

_“Alishan Chutani?” Yusuf asked. “Is he-”_

_“A British national of Pakistani decent, yes.” Novitiate nodded. “Very cautious, doesn't drink. I once overheard him mention his brother-in-law who used to live in Chaman, on the other side of the border, to Nick. That's all I've got at this point, but I'm ninety percent sure he's our main source.”_

_“How do you think they do it?” Yusuf asked, suddenly convinced._

_“Easily,” Eames countered. “They have friends at the air base-”_

_“The Americans?” Yusuf said. “That's not really our domain.”_

_“That's not all,” Novitiate shook his head. “We also play poker with chaps from the local flour refinery. And this establishment works with the catering contractors who supply – guess which camp?”_

_“No!” Yusuf drew back and took off his glasses._

_Novitiate nodded. “All it takes is a small truck that brings food supplies once a moth. Once it's inside the base, it's a done deed.”_

_“The military cargo never gets checked...” Yusuf mumbled to himself as the puzzles fell into place._

_“Imagine, if they invite me in.” Novitiate said with a wild smile. “I'll be able to trace the whole chain – from the lab all the way to Camp Bastion.”_

_“Or get yourself gutted.” Yusuf shuddered._

_“Yeah,” Yusuf's partner scoffed and knocked on the wood of the table. “But for now, could you drop a line to Peter that I'll be needing more funds, in case I'll have to buy me a share in the business.”_

_“Will do,” said Yusuf, packing the papers. “Can I keep them?” He gestured at the envelope._

_“Sure,” replied Novitiate, “I printed them for you.”_

_Not so crazy after all, Yusuf thought of his new partner. A bit odd, yes, but not crazy. Manageable._

_Unfortunately, this was the exact moment when the roll of blankets on the floor in the corner gave out a low moan and started to move. Yusuf's hair stood on end._

_A stick-thin white arm appeared from inside the roll and pulled the top blanket down, revealing strands of dirty black hair and a hollowed face of a girl who was tossing around on her uncomfortable bed, seemingly caught in a bad dream._

_Involuntarily, Yusuf rose to his feet and approached the living parcel._

_“Ah,” said Novitiate. “I almost forgot.”_

_“What,” Yusuf said slowly, “is this?”_

_“This is Mamlakat,” Novitiate announced nonchalantly, as if introducing an acquaintance at a party. “She is Tajiki.”_

_“Tajik,” Yusuf corrected, squatting in front of the child and examining the girl's face: a broken lip; nasty bruises on the lower jaw, a stitched cut on the cheek, left, no doubt, by something heavy, probably a belt buckle; strangulation marks on the throat. Yusuf didn't look further, he carefully pulled the blanket up to cover the child's shoulders._

_“Nick and I,” Novitiate explained, “won in her in cards from the guards at the refinery yesterday night.”_

_Yusuf rubbed at his eyes, feeling a migraine descending on him. “You are,” he admonished, loud and clear, “completely bonkers.”_

_“Look, she's only fourteen. They're town folk, okay. They don't have a small poppy plantation to help ends meet.” It occurred to Yusuf that the words about the poppy plantation had to be taken literally. “Her mother sold her to the guards at the plant for a bag of flour.” Novitiate continued. “Nick and I, we gambled everything we had between the two of us to get her out yesterday. She'd already been there for a week. They'd just use her until she died and then throw her out like a piece of trash.”_

_“Have you considered,” Yusuf began, “returning her to her family instead of bringing her here?”_

_“Nah.” He waived a dismissive hand. “They'll resell her in a matter of days. She's already damaged goods. I actually hoped you could help me set up her paperwork. You're here with Doctors Without Borders?”_

_“The United Nations,” said Yusuf, considering._

_“Even better. Get her on whatever program you can. I want her out of the country as soon as possible. However difficult it might be for her, it'll still be better than staying here.” As he said that, he managed, to Yusuf's surprise, to look simultaneously abashed and defensive._

_“It's okay,” Yusuf said and accepted a proffered hand to get up off the floor. “I'll do it.”_

_“One last thing. Could you speed up the process, if possible,” Eames said as he was seeing him out a few minutes later._

_“What, the money or the girl?” Yusuf frowned._

_“Both. I have a feeling things will start moving very soon. So I'll need the cash.” He glanced briefly in the direction of the kitchen. “And, I want the child off my back as soon as possible. To put it mildly, I'm rubbish at taking care of people.”_

_Yusuf scoffed and barely stopped himself from quoting his favorite citation from a children's book: “We are forever responsible for what we have tamed.”_

_Instead, he shook Novitiate's hand and said, adding as much sting as possible to his words:_

_“Practice, my friend, makes perfect.”_


	4. Robbie Fischer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This stream of disturbing thoughts was interrupted when the entrance door of the house opened, letting in a slight, dark-haired youth, wearing an expensive honey-colored coat and an air of such cool haughtiness that even Robbie, who'd been used to all sorts of snobbish behavior, felt rubbed the wrong way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was beta-read by the wonderful immoral-crow. Inception and all the characters belong to Christopher Nolan. This work of fanfiction was written for fun.

Things escalated rather quickly.

On Sunday afternoon Robbie was in the kitchen with the cook, overseeing the preparation of filet mignon sauce poivre vert – his favorite, when he heard the sounds of voices and commotion coming from the living room area. The familiar soft cadence with merged vowels and emphasized 'r' was Mr. Stevens, the managing director; the unfamiliar one – the jerky rhythm with carefully pronounced 'd' and 't' raised Robbie's suspicions. He took off his apron and made himself look presentable – smoothed the crow's nest on his head in front of the mirror in the changing area, cleaned the splashes of vermouth off his face -- and hurried out of the kitchen.

In the middle of the living room he saw the managing director and a thin, bald, Asian-looking man, wearing a pair of tiny round glasses. The two were engrossed in a conversation over a folder of documents which they'd placed on top of the closed lid of the grand piano. Robbie frowned, trying to remember where and under what circumstances he had seen the bald man. He was about to cough politely in order to attract the pair's attention when he noticed that the wall carrying Father's three Van Goghs was empty. Gone was the landscape, the still-life and, most importantly, the portrait. Robbie swayed and put his hand on the door frame to steady himself.

Mr. Stevens and the Asian, unaware of Robbie's presence, continued their conversation, discussing – from what Robbie managed to understand in his present state of mind – the particulars of a certain exhibition which was to open in Los Angeles at the end of December. The name “Saito Center” was mentioned and suddenly something flashed in Robbie's memory, setting his mind into motion.

He remembered Father, laughing, telling Uncle Peter the story of an American engineering mogul of Japanese descent, an admirateur des beux-arts, an obsessive collector who had approached Father about-of all artists-Van Gogh, the painter whose time had undoubtedly passed. And who on Earth would go after Van Gogh in times when everyone coveted Vermeer? Robbie tried to remember when the conversation in question had taken place – quite a while before, many months, maybe even years. An uncomfortable conclusion followed: like most obsessive types, the Saito character wasn't the one to easily let go of the objects he'd been fixated on. Slowly but surely, the mogul was getting his paws closer to Father's collection. For now it was the exhibition in Saito's private museum in Los-Angeles. God only knew what would follow.

Robbie was absolutely positive Father would never even think of selling any of the three paintings. But then the Saito Center existed on a jaw-dropping budget of more than USD 200 million a year, mandated by the American tax laws that required that foundations spend five percent of their endowment each year. What if the American offered Father half of that sum? Robbie felt his knees go a bit weak. Father would sell. Out of the common sense. And for the sake of the company. Because, sentimentality aside, Father was first and foremost a businessman. He loved the portrait, but he would easily replace it with any of the impressionists he kept in the vault of the Fischer Morrow headquarters in Sydney. And if he sold, there'd be a forensic analysis. And then everyone would know that the marvelous Prussian Blue of the painting were the cheap acrylic paints from the arts supply shop, and not the original oil-based paints applied by the demented Dutchman. The immensity of the scandal, the resonance it would create in the press would be devastating for Father's reputation. They would become a universal laughing stock.

This stream of disturbing thoughts was interrupted when the entrance door of the house opened, letting in a slight, dark-haired youth, wearing an expensive honey-colored coat and an air of such cool haughtiness that even Robbie, who'd been used to all sorts of snobbish behavior, felt rubbed the wrong way. Something positively needed to be done about the steadily growing number of intruders to the patrimony, Robbie reasoned, annoyed.

The youth approached quickly, his heels clicking on the marble floors. His mannerisms and the way he carried himself suggested some sort of military or athletic background – a perfect posture, the proud, upward tilt of his chin.

“Mr. Fischer,” he half-asked and squeezed Robbie's hand in a firm handshake. His palm was hard and cold. The look on his face softened as he spoke to Robbie. There was a web of barely visible wrinkles around the corners of his eyes. Hardly a youth, someone in his late twenties, probably older. “I'm Arthur Levine, head of Mr. Saito's personal security team.”

Robbie barely had time to squeak 'so nice to meet you' before Mr. Stevens descended upon them, brimming with enthusiasm.

“Mr. Fischer!” he exclaimed. “How did you spend the night?” followed, quite abruptly, by “Please meet Mr. Aono, the personal assistant to Mr. Saito. He is going to oversee the transportation of your Father's collection to the States.”

The bespectacled assistant shook Robbie's hand with a polite smile and announced in a mild tone how happy he was to finally make Robbie's acquaintance. Robbie was caught between bristling internally at how everyone thought themselves too busy and important to waste their time on a kid, even if he be an heir to a fortune, and cataloging a belated slew of suspicious thoughts, roused by Mr. Stevens's inquiry. Was the managing director aware of the attempted robbery? Was he even somehow involved? Unfortunately, Robbie wasn't given enough time to think over his suspicions.

“We're loaded and ready to go,” said Arthur Levine, addressing Saito's PA.

Mr. Aono and the managing director gathered their papers from the grand piano and shook hands, exchanging the mandatory pleasantries and assurances of mutual respect and goodwill. Arthur Levine squeezed Robbie's hand once more and, having given him a brief nod by way of good-bye, headed for the exit.

There was more hand-shaking involved as Mr. Aono, on Mr. Saito's behalf, expressed a desire to see Robbie at the opening of the exhibition the following Christmas Eve in Los Angeles. _Oh, Robbie would be there, he was most certain of that, even if no-one had bothered to invite him._

“And where exactly is the exhibition going to be held?” he wondered, keeping in mind that the Saito Center was an enormous establishment with three locations in Los Angeles alone – one in Pacific Palisades and two in Brentwood.

“Due to the exclusive nature of Mr. Fischer's collection and the personal interest in some of the exhibits expressed by Mr. Saito, we've reasoned it would be most appropriate to hold the exhibition at the historic heart of the center, otherwise known as the Saito Villa. It's an honor for Mr. Saito to be giving home, if only temporary, to your father's marvelous collection.”

Mr. Aono didn't even finish speaking before a plan had already begun to form in Robbie's head. The villa in question was an Art Deco building in Pacific Palisades, bought by the Saito family back in the 1950s from an oil tycoon. Robbie knew all that because, apart from art and music, he happened to be interested in architecture. And the villa in question was an important architectural landmark, famous for its twenty-seven windows, fifteen of them a unique gemmail, made-to-order by a tiny factory in France in 1936 from the designs drafted decades before by the incredible Alphonse Mucha. Nowadays, the building housed a collection of paintings and sculpture by European masters dating from the 13th to 19th century. An impressive compilation which, however, failed to compete in size and meaning with Saito's collection of Antiquities or the 20th century masters. Those were housed by the newly opened branches of the Saito Center in New York and Paris respectively.

The reasons behind the mogul's decision to hold the exhibition at the villa were clear. It was yet another family castle – Robbie gave a mental sigh – filled with treasured possessions that the owner, no matter how powerful and influential he was, had no hope of taking with him into the afterlife. And since Saito definitely meant to acquire at least one of Father's Van Goghs, the villa seemed like the only logical choice.

The filet mignon and the dinner plans altogether were put off till a better moment. Having closed the door behind Mr. Stevens and Mr. Saito’s representative, who departed in an armored SUV accompanied by two security vehicles, Robbie sprinted upstairs. In his room, he searched through his half-packed suitcase until he found his wallet – a piece of fine leatherwork, worth two hundred pounds on a sale day and Father's present for Robbie's eighteen's birthday. Tucked securely under the lining of its cash compartment was a simple white business card that Robbie had surreptitiously folded in half. It contained no information but a phone number.

He spent a few minutes studying the neat black digits printed on the expensive matte paper. Even given the fact that Mr. Eames clearly wasn't the most expert burglar around, he was frankly the only burglar Robbie was personally acquainted with. And if Mr. Eames's skill wasn't enough to storm the fortress that was the Saito Villa, someone as friendly and likeable as him must have had connections in the demiworld some of which would be apt enough and willing to do the job. Robbie had no doubt about that.

He tried to remember how much money was in the bank account that accumulated the monthly allowance Robbie received from his trust fund. He hadn't bought almost anything expensive since the beginning of the school year. Hell, he had not bought anything at all in almost a quarter, to be honest. By the most conservative estimate, the funds available for Operation Rescue, as Robbie had labeled it in his head, equaled about sixty thousand pounds.

Decisive, Robbie settled on his bed and dialed Mr. Eames's number only to hang up after the first ring. It occurred to him that he was in such a rush to move on with the plan that he hadn't bothered thinking over the particulars. Before entrusting the crook with saving the family reputation, Robbie had to think of the ways to indemnify himself and Father in case of failure. With a sigh, he opened his laptop and began typing a message to Father's PA.

…

They met in a dark, dungeon-like bar on the south bank of the river Liffey in Dublin. A neutral territory of Robbie's choice, agreed to by Mr. Eames. The place served craft beers from all corners of the English-speaking world; a five-person jazz-band was performing some screechy tune on a tiny stage with red curtains when Robbie entered the premises. He was carded twice: first at the door, and later when he attempted to order a beer from a maypole of a bartender who squinted suspiciously at Robbie's UK driving licence and then pretended he could not understand what Robbie was saying over the hellish hubbub of the rather rowdy crowd that was filling the bar.

The crowd was indeed rambunctious: the patrons were attacking the bar counter in boisterous waves, yelling over the music to the bartenders, gamely pushing and shoving at one another. At one point Robbie was almost dislodged from his stool by a group of already inebriated young ladies who descended upon the bar like a hurricane, one of them sporting a mock bridal veil. Aggressively pursuing the bartender's attention, 'the bride' pushed one of her lady friends so that the latter landed in Robbie's lap. Robbie's hands scraped at the slippery surface of the bar counter in an attempt to restore his balance, but the dead weight of the girl's vast backside was practically squeezing him out of his seat. She shrieked out a laugh but made no effort to relieve Robbie of the unwelcome burden.

The situation was a rather embarrassing one, because Robbie would never in his life push a woman, but at this rate something _had_ to be done, otherwise he risked losing his seat and dignity. Thankfully, he was saved from the necessity of making the difficult choice as someone on his other side gave Robbie a powerful, but not painful bodily shove, reestablishing him in his original spot, the momentum pushing the annoying girl off the stool with such force that she almost fell to the floor.

Robbie swung around in surprise, and found himself nose-to-nose with Mr. Eames, who greeted him with a most quiet and innocent smile and proceeded to attract the bartender's attention by whipping out a 100 Euro note and yelling in a surprisingly raucous, for someone that sweet-looking, voice: “One Trashy Blonde and a pint of Carrig Red! A plate of oysters and a bottle to booth seventeen, fast!” Having paid for his order, he practically swept Robbie off his seat and guided him down the wooden stairs leading to the cellar floor. As he went, he managed to wink at the quieted bridal group who'd been following their departure with malicious stares, but immediately broke into bashful giggles at this lewd and inappropriate gesture. _O women!_ Robbie shook his head.

The cellar of the bar was a rectangular space, divided into twenty private booths by flimsy cardboard barriers, upholstered with velvet of deep red -- the color that contrasted quite beautifully with the dark brickwork of the cellar walls. Booth seventeen was in the virtually empty corner of the cellar, where the noise and music from the top floor were still loud, but allowed for a proper conversation without needing to yell on top of one's lungs. Mr. Eames must have been occupying the spot for some time, because on the black wooden table tucked between two plush sofas Robbie saw an open packet of crisps and a half-pint of some dark beer, barely touched.

The air in the cellar was marginally warmer than upstairs, and they promptly lost their coats. Mr. Eames, to Robbie's surprise, was wearing a modest three-piece suit with no tie under his pea-coat, looking every bit the local bank employee after hours. They had just settled down when a waiter, who couldn't be any older than Robbie and sported a spectacular nose piercing, served them with their beers and a plate of oysters, complete with a bowl filled with a mix of Tabasco sauce and vodka and a bottle of champagne.

Robbie, who hadn't really gone out since he broke up with Katie in the beginning of summer, suddenly felt cheerful and festive, a feeling he tried to crush as best he could, since he was in this bar on business. The crook observed him for a few seconds, the now familiar quiet smile on his face, as if waiting for Robbie to start the negotiations. Robbie cleared his throat.

“Before we begin, there's a few questions I'd like to ask you. To clear the uncertainty, so to speak.”

Mr. Eames's reply was a considerate nod of the head.

“First, how did you manage to get past the alarm system when you broke into our house?” Robbie watched carefully for the burglar's reaction.

“Mr. Stevens,” said the crook with a shrug, “is a very diligent man, changes the password on the system every week and then sends it to his employees via email. I happened to have a few pints with one of said employees at a pub in Blessington a few days back.” He gave Robbie a close-lipped smile. “A very nice bloke, a bit inattentive though. I borrowed his phone and memorized the combination. Wasted an hour of my time on the whole thing, including the drinking.”

Robbie scoffed in embarrassment. But still it was a relief to know that none of the security guards at the barn were cold-hearted traitors. Mr. Eames crunched on his crisps, waiting for the next question.

“Why Van Gogh?” Robbie continued after a short pause. “We have a Vermeer in the public wing. If you've come as far as breaking and entering, why settle for something so passé?”

Mr. Eames just stared blankly at him.

“Johannes Vermeer?” Robbie tried to explain. “'Girl With a Pearl Earring'? 'The Procuress'?”

The crook scratched at his chin, his eyebrows creased in concentration, as if searching his memory for the name. “Never heard of her,” he delivered finally. “The Van Gogh fella on the contrary -- he was on 'Dr. Who'.”

Robbie leaned back in his seat and took a more careful look at his companion as the latter began retelling, quite animatedly, the plotline of an episode involving an invisible bird-like monster, plaguing 19th century Provence. Mr. Eames proved to be one of those storytellers who were more in love with the sound of their own voice than their audiences. As the story continued and there seemed to be no end to it in sight, Robbie sipped from his bottle of Trashy Blonde and ate a couple of oysters, dipping them into Tabasco sauce as he'd never tried before.

How could someone as attractive and pleasing as Mr. Eames be so airheaded and vain? he grumbled silently to himself.

“And of course,” the crook summed up, which came as a sort of an unexpected conclusion as Robbie had apparently zoned out while listening to the incessant rumble,“there's the accessibility factor.”

Robbie straightened up in his seat, suddenly alert and trying to remember at what point he'd lost the thread of the conversation.

“I mean, I could have gone for the public wing as you mentioned – but Jesus! – I'd have to deal with the video circuit and the hourly patrol,” reasoned the burglar, oblivious to Robbie's confusion. “You must know that the market value of the painting is of little importance to me,” he ventured on, “as I obviously won't be able to openly sell the nicked piece of art and ask the full price for it. What really matters is expense-return ratio. Why waste time and resources, and most importantly run the risk of being busted while trying to nab something so hard to get, when you know you won't even get the right price for it?” His gaze that had been drifting around the room focused on Robbie's face, as if to make sure that Robbie was apt enough to comprehend what was being said. Robbie nodded, feigning understanding. Mr.Eames smiled beatifically at that, apparently satisfied with Robbie's response.

“In short,” continued the crook, “you grab what's easiest to get and leg it off, hoping it'll fetch a reasonable price among blokes.”

“How much were you hoping to get for the three paintings – among blokes, as you put it?” Robbie couldn't help wondering. The portrait alone cost Father around 35 million in American dollars seven years prior, the still-life and the landscape were purchased together for roughly half of that sum two years earlier, which brought the combined cost of the Van Goghs to more than 50 million dollars.

“Now,” replied Mr. Eames, “everyone heard of Van Gogh. He's the demented guy who cut his ear off and drew the white whirlpools in the night sky. He was on national TV, after all.”

Robbie couldn't deny the logic behind Mr. Eames's arguments.

“So for the portrait, I'd say I'd get maybe twenty-”

“Million?” Robbie asked, running the estimates in his head. Even with the inflation in mind, the price suggested by the crook sounded quite reasonable.

“Thousand pounds,” Mr. Eames finished deadpan and shook his head. Now it was Robbie's turn to stare.

“Or, if I'm lucky, a kilo of hash, maybe two. Of course the people I'll sell it to, the big fish, will be able to exchange it for an entire shipment – I'd say a few tons. But those quantities are understandably beyond my reach.” He shrugged to illustrate that he'd made peace with his lot in life. “As for the two other paintings, I'm not quite sure yet. I mean, in all honesty, they're nothing much, really. I'd hold on to them for a while, and, who knows, with time they'd come in useful as well.”

Robbie took a big gulp from his glass, trying to stomach the information that had just been dumped on him. The idea of treating a priceless painting as 'nothing much' and using it as means of payment in a shady deal seemed outrageous, but the longer Robbie considered it, the more reasonable it sounded, coming from someone of Mr. Eames's background.

“Now,” Mr. Eames got control of the conversation once again. “I gather you didn't ask to meet me here in order to take an excursion into my little world, did you?”

Robbie swallowed his beer and shook his head, feeling the bubbles rising up in his throat. A brief pause followed. Mr. Eames raised his eyebrows expectantly: “I'm all ears.”


End file.
